


From Dawn To Dusk

by hollowbirds (torturousthings)



Category: Panic! at the Disco
Genre: Angst, Hanahaki AU, M/M, This Is Sad, Unrequited Love, an alternate timeline where the band exists, blood mention, drug mention
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-10
Updated: 2018-07-10
Packaged: 2019-06-08 12:16:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,393
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15243201
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/torturousthings/pseuds/hollowbirds
Summary: Panic! at the Disco are on their first headlining tour.Brendon, frontman, barely eighteen, starts coughing up flower petals. A Hanahaki AU.Hanahaki Disease (花吐き病 (Japanese); 하나하키병 (Korean); 花吐病 (Chinese)) is a fictional disease in which the victim coughs up flower petals when they suffer from one-sided love. It ends when the beloved returns their feelings (romantic love only; strong friendship is not enough), or when the victim dies. It can be cured through surgical removal, but when the infection is removed, the victim's romantic feelings for their love also disappear.





	From Dawn To Dusk

**Author's Note:**

> this idea stemmed from an anon on tumblr that said they wanted to read one of these AU with ryden, so I happily indulged. Whoever you are, I hope you enjoy. And even if you're not that person, I hope you enjoy as well :'))
> 
> title from a translation of Ronsard's _Mignonne, allons voir si la rose_

 

“Alright, we’re good on this one,” Zack called out from the other end of the venue as Ryan’s last chords died out in the speakers. This room was slightly bigger than what they were used to, but Ryan couldn’t complain. They had an album on the charts, they were touring. They were making it. Zack raised a hand, seemingly to get their attention even if it was hard not to spot him. “Next song!” 

 

Brendon rubbed his forehead, frowning. He looked like he had a headache, but Ryan knew he’d already taken a couple doses of Ibuprofen that morning. Ten milligrams were lethal — he’d looked it up —, and he feared Brendon had been bordering eight per day, already. 

 

“What’s the next song?” Brendon asked wearily, even if the setlist was already stuck to the ground by his mic stand. It wasn't the first night of tour either, so him forgetting which songs came after which was strange, to say the least. Ryan looked up from his guitar, which he’d been retuning quickly; the humidity in Louisiana made it go out of tune ridiculously fast. 

 

“Camisado,” Jon replied, plucking absent-mindedly at one of his strings, sending low frequencies that bounced off the walls. Brendon was pale, shadows under his eyes, and he was grabbing the mic stand like it was a buoy, like it was the only thing keeping him from drowning. 

 

“Oh, yeah. Camisado,” he breathed into the mic. “Let’s go. Let’s do this.” Something in his voice sounded like he was trying to convince himself more than his bandmates, and that was so wrong on so many levels. To have the lead singer, the one front and centre, show so little self confidence was one thing, but for that person to be _Brendon_ — that was fucked up. Brendon, the guy who was the most willing to answer the interviewers when everyone else was over it, the guy who would jump around the studio to somehow spend his energy— That guy was nowhere to be found, not in the slump of his shoulders or the clench in his jaw, like he was biting back some pain he couldn’t speak of. 

 

“Dude, are you sure you’re okay?” Spencer’s voice came through from behind the drums, muted compared to the amplified ones that usually rang out in the room, and the fact that he could also tell something was wrong without seeing Brendon’s face seriously meant that there was a problem. 

 

Brendon’s head turned backwards and he looked at the drummer, forcing a weak smile. A slight sheen of sweat was covering his forehead despite the fact that the AC had been on ever since they’d stepped into the venue that morning, his hair already pasted to his temples. 

 

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” he said, shaking his head. His hands were still gripping the stand, knuckles white with effort. Ryan debated briefly whether he should pull him to the side and ask what the hell was going on, away from the spotlight. Maybe that would get an answer out of him. Brendon took a deep breath and swallowed with difficulty, staring straight ahead. “Let’s just do this.” 

 

Ryan glanced back at Spencer, who all but shrugged, twirling a drumstick between his fingers. Brendon was supposed to go back to the guitar for this number, but he clearly was just waiting for one of his bandmates to start playing. Erik shot Ryan an inquisitive look from across the stage, something that said ‘he needs to get his shit together’ and ‘please help him get his shit together’ all at once. 

 

“Bren,” he said said softly, leaning toward his friend. “Your guitar.” 

 

Brendon’s eyes widened slightly as he took in the information, like a dazed child who’s just come off the rollercoaster. He ran a hand through his damp hair, nodding to no one in particular as he crossed the short distance to retrieve his guitar, adjusting the strap. He walked back up to the mic, playing the one note that started the song off. 

 

Almost immediately after, the piano kicked in, Erik’s fingers running on the keys so swiftly it seemed like he’d played that melody his entire life. Well, at least that was going well. Brendon took a deep breath in and the first words from the song Ryan had written about his father echoed in the empty room, and for a second he tried to imagine it full of people, full of sweaty faces and breathless grins, just so he could stop focusing on how unwell Brendon seemed. The other boy clearly didn’t want to acknowledge it at all. 

 

They were about halfway through the first chorus when suddenly Brendon doubled up coughing, an ugly, hoarse sound as he instinctively leaned away from the mic to spare the loudspeakers. Ryan rushed towards him immediately after hurriedly setting his guitar down and grabbed his shoulder. He saw Jon do the same from the other side, but Brendon hadn’t stopped coughing at all, his shoulders shaking as the fit racked his whole body. One of his hands was plastered over his mouth, and tears were starting to run down his flushed cheeks. Ryan looked up at Jon with a mix of confusion and distress, but the bassist didn’t seem any less shaken by the situation, eyes helplessly going from him to Brendon and back. 

 

Ryan leaned down, a hand on Brendon’s spine, only to see that a multitude of white _things_ were dotting the floor, next to the setlist. 

 

“What’s this?” he mumbled, his hand still on his friend’s back but frowning at the dots that had certainly not been there when they’d started soundcheck. There wasn’t a lot of them, and they were small, barely the size of a fingernail. He kneeled down and picked one of them up; it was soft, almost velvety to the touch, something undeniably familiar in the feeling. Upon closer inspection, they were light pink, not white. 

 

“Flower petals?” Ryan said, looking at Jon in puzzlement. After the show, it wouldn’t have been weird. You could find all types of things on the stage after the show. Sometimes it was bras, sometimes flowers. Water bottles, too, but not before. Was this some kind of surprise? A proposal, maybe? 

 

Not that any of them were getting married anytime soon, but maybe one of the techs wanted to plan an unforgettable proposal. If it was so, he’d probably get fired for interfering with soundcheck.

 

Ryan looked up at Brendon as he coughed again, and realised with horror that the petals hadn’t been just falling from the sky, but came from the singer’s mouth as he coughed, hanging in the air for a little before floating lazily to the ground. 

 

He stood up hastily and took a step back as Brendon finally took a breath, gasping for air like there was none left in his lungs. He wiped his eyes with his forearm, but if that gesture managed to clean the tears from his face, the redness in his cheeks and around his eyes was still very much there. 

 

“Oh, God,” he gasped, resting one hand on the neck of his guitar, the other one at his hip. “God, I’m sorry. Let’s just— let’s carry on.” 

 

At that moment, it felt like everyone who had just witnessed the scene stared at Brendon in disbelief, but he didn’t seem fazed by all the eyes on him, frowning instead, as though the fact they’d all stopped playing for _this_ was ridiculous. Sweat still covered his forehead and was starting to drip down his neck, staining the collar of his dark blue t-shirt, the one Ryan had lent him a few days back. He shot Ryan an interrogative look. 

 

“What?”

 

What? Seriously? Ryan wanted to yell at him, but it felt wrong to shout right then, probably because he didn’t seem like he needed to be any more distraught. 

 

“Dude, you almost just fucking died!” He retorted, trying to keep his voice level as he gestured to Brendon. “Do you really expect us to carry on like you didn’t start coughing up _flower petals_?”

 

“Hey, hey, it’s fine,” Jon chimed in, eternally the mediator. He’d gone back to his original spot, near his own mic stand. “It’s probably just a prank. Right, Bren? I don’t know how you pulled that off, but it’s impressive.” 

 

The fact that it could’ve been a prank hadn’t even registered as a possibility; in the few moments where Brendon had started coughing violently, all that went through his mind was ‘how do I make this stop?’ and ‘is he going to be okay?’ 

 

And then, of course, the petals. There was no explanation for those, apart from the whole thing being a practical joke, but he knew Brendon and this looked too real to be one. Brendon couldn’t cry on command, at least not that he knew of. 

 

The boy nodded at Jon’s hypothesis and waved his hand in the air dismissively, readjusting the mic even if it already was in place. The petals at his feet made it look like he’d just been blessed by some kind of superior deity, and the stage lights also helped in the matter. But Ryan really wasn’t about to be fooled; Brendon was far from fine, his eyes hazy, the red ridding his cheeks contrasting starkly with how pale the rest of him was. 

 

“If this happens again, we’re canceling the show,” Ryan said flatly, turning away from the others and walking to the edge of the stage, in hopes that it’d clarify the fact that the conversation was over. If anything other than words came out of Brendon’s mouth during a show, they had a problem, and Ryan wasn’t about to let one of his closest friends fuck his health up for music, no matter how important it was. He looked back at Brendon, accusingly pointing a finger at him. “And we’re calling you a doctor to figure out what the hell this is.” 

 

To his surprise, no one protested, not even Jon, who’d suggested the prank option just minutes before. They resumed the song and finished soundcheck, but Ryan couldn’t get the incident out of his mind. There was something terribly wrong about the entire situation, and it felt as though this was just the beginning. 

 

———

 

 

“There doesn't seem to be anything wrong with him,” the doctor said, closing the dressing room door behind him. Ryan couldn't remember his name, and he wasn’t one of those doctors who wore a name tag either. Too bad. “He just needs some rest, it’s probably just a cold on top of the stress from tour.”

 

A cold sounded like the most plausible explanation, but Brendon’s voice hadn’t sounded different at all. Maybe that was the next stage. The petals still remained unexplained. 

 

“Should we cancel the show tonight?” Spencer asked, the audible concern in his voice clearly more for his bandmate than for the show. His arms were crossed tightly over his chest, as though he’d been expecting worser news. The doctor pushed his golden-rimmed glasses up his nose. 

 

“If he doesn’t over-exert himself, it should be fine.” 

 

“Did he tell you he coughed up flower petals?” Ryan blurted out. He hadn’t seen the doctor arrive, and clearly no one had told him about that. Why would they? It sounded just as crazy as it felt, but that was what he’d seen. That shit wasn’t to be taken lightly. 

 

The doctor’s eyes widened slightly, his mouth parting to form an answer that took longer than expected. This was clearly either out of his reach, or he was considering referring Ryan to a psychologist. 

 

“Flower petals? Are you sure?” 

 

“Told ya that was just a prank,” Jon said, running a hand through his hair. Ryan shot him a dark look. Jon had been there, he’d seen the petals up close just like he had, so supporting the prank theory felt almost like a betrayal. 

 

Ryan looked back at the doctor, who, to his disbelief, was now nodding. “It was probably just an ill-timed joke, your friend will be fine.” 

 

“Bullshit,” he muttered as he pushed past the doctor and Spencer and walked into the room, closing the door behind him. 

 

Brendon was sitting on one of the sofas that lined the wall, across from the typical dressing room mirrors, his legs folded underneath him like a child. He almost looked like one, the posture making him look small and vulnerable. 

 

“They’re the same in every goddamn state,” he said in a low voice, nodding towards the mirrors. 

 

It was true. The lightbulbs framing them now felt so impersonal that they could play in a hundred different venues, and the dressing room would feel the exact same. Maybe it was because it was with the same people. Ryan felt comfortable with them, like a family away from that shitty little house in Vegas. It was good, most days. Others it felt as though he was stuck in a time loop, doomed to relive the same day again and again. He looked at Brendon, who was still pale although the redness in his cheeks had faded and the sweat had been wiped away. 

 

“Sorry about today,” he added, picking at his nails. “Didn’t really plan on that happening during soundcheck.” 

 

Ryan walked up to the sofa and sat down next to him. He couldn’t help but notice that Brendon moved away from him ever-so-slightly. “What does that mean? Has it happened before?” 

 

Brendon looked up from his hands. “The coughing fits? Yeah, a few times. They suck, but whatever. I’ll live.” 

 

“When?” 

 

“What?” 

 

“When did it happen, was it on tour?” 

 

He shrugged. “Yeah, I think so. Don’t really see how that’s any of your business, though.” 

 

“Not my— not my business?” Ryan said in disbelief, standing up to face Brendon better. Anger was suddenly bubbling in his gut, finally surfacing after having built up all morning. “Not my fucking business? Jesus, Brendon, don’t you think you should have _some_ amount of responsibility over yourself?”

 

Brendon frowned, clearly taken aback by the sudden burst of anger. “What the hell does that mean?” 

 

“It means that you’re not alone in this, okay? You don’t get to cough out fucking— fucking flower petals and pretend it’s nothing when you probably have some kind of weird-ass illness that nobody wants to fucking acknowledge! We’re a team, for fuck’s sake!” 

 

Ryan turned away from him in frustration, making attempts at deep breaths to get himself back together. Fuck, did he really take that little care of himself? He was the lead singer, for God’s sake. He was the face of the band, and they couldn't have him treat himself like that. Ryan couldn’t have him treat himself like that, as a friend, as a bandmate. It was difficult to pinpoint when he’d started not caring, because none of the others had noticed at all. 

 

“It wasn’t a prank,” Brendon sighed, running a hand over his face. Ryan turned around to look at him. Some part of him wanted to burst out of the room to yell at Jon that he’d been wrong all along, but the confirmation that it was all real was more soul-crushing than his need to be right. “It wasn’t a prank. I keep coughing up petals, and I don’t fucking know why. They used to be white, but now they’ve turned pink.”

 

“Why didn’t you tell the doctor, then?” 

 

He huffed. “About the petals? He’d think I’m crazy, and that’s literally the last thing I need right now. And you said it yourself; no one wants to acknowledge it.” 

 

Ryan already knew that it was pointless to call the doctor back; the man wasn’t keen on helping, and insisting would probably just make matters worse. 

 

“God, this is fucked. What do we do if it happens tonight? What do we do then?” 

 

Brendon stood up, running a hand through his hair. “I guess we make them believe it’s some kind of stage prop.” 

 

Ryan sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose before looking back at him. “You tell me next time this happens, okay? We need to figure out what the hell this is.” 

 

“Yeah, I will.” 

 

“Promise?” 

 

Brendon chuckled and nodded, like making him promise was something silly. Like Ryan wasstupid not to trust him, even after him hiding his fits for so long. 

 

“Promise, mom,” he said as he pulled the other boy into a hug. “Thank you for being here for me,” he mumbled into Ryan’s shirt. “I love you.” 

 

Those last three words were almost whispered, so quiet that Ryan wasn’t even sure he’d actually said them. 

 

“Love you too, man,” he said, squeezing Brendon harder before letting him go. They had a show to prepare for, and Brendon needed the rest, just like the doctor had said. 

 

“I gotta go call Keltie, but you rest up, alright?” He added, walking up to the door and pulling it open, seeing that the others weren’t behind it anymore, probably off to mind their own business before the show. Ryan had promised his girlfriend to call her at least once a week, and he’d neglected doing that for too many days. Now that he knew Brendon was alright, he could go do that. 

 

“Yeah,” Brendon said quietly, going to sit back on the couch. “I will.” 

 

———

 

“Brendon?” Ryan shouted, hearing the others do the same in the various hallways of the venue. He couldn’t have gone far, right? One of the guitar techs had claimed to have seen him in the dressing room just minutes ago. 

 

It was barely an hour before the show, and Ryan could already hear the venue fill up, the stomping of feet and the shrieks of high school girls that couldn’t hold their excitement back. But he wasn’t excited. Worry tied his insides in knots, and it wasn’t the kind of pre-show jitters he usually had. This was a horrible gut feeling, something that made it feel as though all of his organs were in the wrong place, a looming nausea ready to make him sick. 

 

“Brendon?” He repeated, making his voice as loud as he could. He walked past a door, pushing it open and glancing inside rapidly, scanning the room to make sure no one was in it. It was probably a supply stacking room, amp boxes and cables haphazardly piled on top of each other. They used to have to carry those back to the van themselves, but now they had techs and trainees that did it in their place. And they had a real tour bus. 

 

Two more empty rooms, and the last door in this hallway was just a bathroom. Venue bathrooms, as a general rule, were nasty. They were cleaned periodically, sure, but something about the fact that so many people dropped by them, either to have sex or do drugs, made them always a tad uncomfortable to be in. Ryan pushed the door open, nonetheless. He wasn’t going to skip that room just because he didn’t like it. This particular bathroom was divided in three separate stalls, the walls lined with cheap-looking white and blue tiles. Two sinks with one single, big mirror over it, which was covered in scribbles and various signatures that performers had left over the years. 

 

Ryan stepped inside the room, trying to ignore the disgusting, typical mud-like water that covered the floor. 

 

“Bren?” 

 

Two of the stall doors were cracked open, but the middle one was closed, albeit not locked, considering the little green spot that indicated its potential vacancy. Ryan’s eyes traveled to the ground, and felt his heart sink as he saw blood red dots strewn on the grimy, tiled floor. Petals, again, only a few shades darker than the ones that had dotted the stage just a few hours before. Brendon had mentioned the fact that they used to be white, and Ryan could only think of the gradual change in colour as the petals being more and more tinted with blood over time. The image of the tortured, ailing artist coughing blood into his handkerchief kept spinning in his head, but he just couldn’t find the irony in it right then. 

 

“Fuck,” he breathed, pushing the stall door open. What if he found Brendon unconscious behind it? What would they do then? 

 

But the stall was completely and decidedly empty, apart from the crushed petals on the floor. He imagined Brendon in it, his back pressed against one of the walls, unable to stop the coughs that kept escaping his throat, tears rolling down his cheeks as he tried to make as little noise as possible. Stumbling out of the stall to find water, leaving the petals behind, trampled on and broken. 

 

Ryan heard hurried footsteps echoing in the hallway outside, followed by someone calling his name. 

 

“In here!” He yelled back, and Spencer burst into the bathroom moments later, breathing heavily, his cheeks flushed and his eyes wide. “Did you find him?” Ryan asked urgently, hoping for the confirmation, for Spencer to tell him that they’d found Brendon safe and unharmed, probably smoking a joint on top of one of the buses. Just like he’d do. 

 

But the only look that Ryan saw in Spencer’s eyes as the other boy finally managed to steady his breathing, was one of absolute horror and distress, incomprehension tainting his features. The drummer nodded, swallowing with difficulty. He opened his mouth but no sounds came out, and Ryan felt his blood turn cold as it flowed through his veins, sending icy blasts through his limbs. 

 

“How is he? Where is he?” He pressed on, grabbing his friend’s arm. “Fuck’s sake, say something!” 

 

Spencer stared at him, stared _through_ him, his blue eyes suddenly empty of anything, and he fell into Ryan’s arms almost silently, his entire body shaking, gripping the fabric of Ryan’s shirt like it would anchor him to reality. The realisation that Brendon wasn’t fine finally dawned on Ryan, like the sky suddenly crashed down onto his shoulders. He pushed Spencer away, knowing that he shouldn’t but nothing really made sense right then apart from Brendon’s name ringing in his head, the need to make sure that he’s okay. Brendon’s words to him in the dressing room earlier that day, and the paralysing idea that those might’ve been the last words they’d exchanged. 

 

He ran back into the hallway, feeling Spencer on his heels, but he didn’t look back; if Spencer was crying, it’d all make it even more real, and that couldn’t happen. This couldn’t be happening. 

 

The rest was a blur. Spencer leading him to the room they’d found Brendon in, Jon and Zack stopping him from going in. The burning tears, the frantic words escaping his mouth in dislocated sentences, something about paramedics and ambulances, about how he really needed to see Brendon, how he was going to be okay. The oblivious venue manager coming up to them and starting a sentence about how they had to be on in five minutes, only to be interrupted by a string of incoherent yelling. 

 

“Our fucking lead singer’s fucking unconscious, and you expect us to go onstage in five minutes, asshole?” Ryan screamed at him, almost ready to punch him, and Jon grabbed his shoulders, an attempt at calming him that didn’t work at all. Nothing would calm him down. Nothing but seeing his bandmate alive and well, smiling his signature smile in front of a cheering crowd. It suddenly seemed so trivial, like the music didn’t matter, like tour could go fuck itself. The fans, too. They were probably the reason this was happening in the first place. 

 

“Ryan—” Jon started softly as the venue manager talked to Zack in a low voice. 

 

Ryan looked at him, eyes scanning his face wildly. “We need to fucking cancel the show, Jon, he needs a paramedic, he needs—” 

 

Jon closed his eyes, and although Ryan knew he’d said those words before, they clearly hadn’t been heard. 

 

“He’s not unconscious, Ry.” Jon wrapped his arms around him, and Ryan stared at the wall straight ahead, unable to close his eyes because of the horrifying images that his eyelids conjured, feeling the tears sting his cheeks. “He’s not with us anymore.” 

 

* * *

* * *

 

** _A YEAR LATER_ **

 

Meeting fans again felt surreal. They’d been on a break for so long, Ryan knew everyone even doubted they'd come back, that Panic! at the Disco survived their frontman’s passing. 

 

They had. Jon, Spencer and Ryan had promised themselves to carry on, because it was the right thing to do. They’d toured a little again, Ryan singing the lead vocals but never once standing in the middle, refusing to take Brendon’s place, the symbolic gap between Jon and him always reminding everyone of their loss. 

 

“I love your music,” the girl in front of him said, her smile making her eyes crinkle as she handed him a paper bag. “My friends and I made this, I hope you like it,” she added, and Ryan forced a smile at her as he looked inside before reaching in, pulling out a mass of red clothing. It was a vest, much like the ones he’d always loved to wear, complete with red flower petals on the chest. Ryan felt his heart hammer in his ribcage, remembering the image of the red flower petals strewn all over the bathroom floor, and although it had almost been a year, it still hurt like yesterday. 

 

The reason of Brendon’s death was never released to the public, the papers simply mentioning the “tragic death” of a “gifted musician with a bright future.” The band itself never heard the results of the autopsy. The petals were never mentioned again, and Ryan hadn’t spoken to anyone about it. 

 

A few days after Brendon passed, he’d found a light pink petal in one of his pockets again, a reminder that he hadn’t been going crazy and that the reality he was living in was brutally material, that Brendon was no longer there to laugh at stupid shit with him. 

 

“Thank you,” he told the girl, pushing the idea of Brendon and the fateful coincidence away, almost to make sure that his voice wouldn’t break.

 

And he promised himself there that he’d wear it, as a tribute, for as long as he could. 


End file.
